


if i could find a way

by couldaughter



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Developing Relationship, Friendship, M/M, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-30 10:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13949994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “We’ll do better, next time,” said Sergei, with a faint smile. He wasn’t sure which next time he meant.





	if i could find a way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [void_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/gifts).



> Beta credit to H! Thank you for teaching me how punctuation works ;)

He says the best way out is always through.  
And I agree to that, or in so far  
As that I can see no way out but through—  
Leastways for me  
( _A Servant to Servants - Robert Frost_ )

Rita: This day was perfect. You couldn't have planned a day like this.  
Phil: Well, you can. It just takes an awful lot of work.  
( _Groundhog Day - Danny Rubin_ )

 

1

Sergei opened his eyes.

His alarm, some preloaded generic tune, played from the neon screen of his phone - marooned on the dresser halfway across the room.

His neck was sore; probably he’d slept in a funny position in the night, pillows crumpled on the opposite side of the bed. He wasn’t usually a restless sleeper, as far as he knew, but bad games had been known to bring it out of him.

Back in Novokuznetsk, he’d had a lot of stiff necks.

The remnants of an odd dream were tugging at him, distracting from the ache in his joints, the sound of the buzzer ringing out a miserable game against Toronto still lingering in his ears. Losing 6-3 was pretty bad, even for pre-game jitters, even in the mire of a four game losing streak.

Anxiety dreams were not new territory for him, even quite a few seasons into his career in the NHL, and he’d certainly had worse in the past. The injury-related ones were much worse than a bad start against Toronto, but he found it hard to shake the idea of it even as he got up and pulled his covers back across the bed.

He liked to make his bed every morning, sharp corners and almost military efficiency. It felt nice to have something in his life he was a hundred percent responsible for.

The radio hummed quietly as he ate spoonfuls of oats and looked through the pile of junk mail that’d collected on the mat. He frowned down at a bright yellow envelope promising him vast rewards in exchange for personal information and a wire transfer.

He could’ve sworn he’d already had one of those delivered. Usually the junk mail cycle took a little longer than 24 hours to repeat.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon were taken up with cleaning. The dishes he thought he’d dealt with the night before were back in the sink, dirty again. The memory of cleaning them was fading, though — probably just a dream, Sergei thought, as he scrubbed vigorously at a casserole dish.

He left for the day with a nagging feeling that he’d forgotten something at the back of his mind. He hummed along absently with the radio as he drove, an American singer he thought he’d heard before in the locker room.

He was still humming when he pulled up at the arena, although the radio had moved on to recounting the morning news.

“Everything alright, Bobs?” Savy gave him a reassuring smile in the locker room, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Sergei smiled back. “Oh, just fine, thank you. A little worried, but nothing too bad.”

Savy clapped a hand on his shoulder, shifting his body armour just a little to the left. “No need for that, bud. We’ve got this.”

They did not, in fact, have it.

It was with a horrible, vivid sense of deja vu that Sergei lived through the first and second periods, identical to his dream — the memory made sharper in the reliving — and even Nick bringing them within one wasn’t enough to shake the storm cloud gathering in his chest.

He spent the second intermission battling against a headache he could feel brewing. Something was very, desperately wrong here, and he couldn’t figure out what.

There was a story in his family, passed down from his mother’s great-grandmother, about the trouble witches had caused them, once upon a time in even less urban Siberia. Trouble with the livestock, and the fire burning out almost before it could be lit. One long, fish-hook of a story about the great-uncle who’d been trapped in a moment, living it over and over again for eternity.

Sergei really hoped a witch hadn’t found his family again. The story hadn’t really had an ending.

If he shut his eyes he could see two scoreboards in his head, perfectly overlaid.

The third period went just as he’d dreamed it.

Pucks went wide — went high — went just inches past his glove or blocker. He felt like he was moving through treacle, more dreamlike than the dream had been.

They lost 6-3. Again.

After the game, Sergei changed as quickly as he could, ducked the media, and went to find a quieter corner of the arena to have a very controlled meltdown.

He was still sat in the corridor, only occasionally passed by the equipment team wheeling kit bags back and forth, when Nick slid down the wall to sit beside him.

“Hey,” said Nick, somewhat subdued.

“Hi,” replied Sergei. He was also feeling subdued, but possibly not for the same reasons.

Sergei turned his head. Nick was looking intently at his hands, locked loosely around his knees. His suit was wrinkled, slightly, probably from sitting down, but possibly from the back-and-forth of Nick’s fingers rubbing the fabric. His fingers twitched from time to time.

“We’ll do better, next time,” said Sergei, with a faint smile. He wasn’t sure which next time he meant.

“Hopefully that’ll be true for both of us, huh?” said Nick, not quite managing a smile of his own. His lips twitched down at one corner, despite the effort.

“I’ll try my very hardest,” Sergei said, thinking again of the dream he’d had. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“That’s the spirit,” Nick replied, clapping him on the back. He left his hand there a moment too long, the heat seeping through Sergei’s suit jacket. “Up and at ‘em, Bob. Don’t let the bastard Leafs get you down.”

Sergei watched as Nick left, eyes catching on the line of his shoulders. It was becoming a bad habit, but not one Sergei was that worried about. It could be worse.

The exercise bike beckoned, anyway. It was easy, and relaxing, to push himself a little harder on the bike after a loss, get out some of the frustration. _That_ was a habit he could get worried about.

After a few miles pedalling to nowhere, Sergei dismounted and went home. It was easier than stopping to talk with Richards, or risk having to talk to the media again.

It would also be easier for Sergei’s wellbeing to avoid reading any of the articles posted after the game, but he had conceded long before that he should follow at least some of what the Dispatch was saying about him, if only so he could defend himself later on.

He got as far as Portzline’s title (‘Abyss-mal’, _honestly_ ) before giving up. There was only so much self flagellation he would stoop too of an evening.

So he went to bed, and slept. And then he woke up, neck aching, and it was Friday again.

 

5

Sergei had always assumed that the worst feeling in hockey was a losing streak; the feeling of going up against a different team every night and still failing to close out a win.

This, as it turned out, was untrue.

Nothing was quite as demoralising, he was beginning to find, as losing the _same_ hockey game multiple times.

He’d been trying his best to change things, of course - the third time through, when he realised the repeat hadn’t been just a bad dream, he’d managed to keep the Jackets within one for the entire game.

They never scored the tying goal. Lost 4-2 to an empty netter.

It could’ve been worse.

And Sergei still woke up on October 16th, with a crick in his neck and a growing frustration burning acid sharp at the back of his throat.

The game started badly, that night. He allowed one early, when before he’d managed to keep the first period clear, and he felt that acid anger bubbling up even as he tried to stay calm, keep his mind in the game.

Two minutes later, they tied it up. Sergei still felt a little bit like snapping his stick, throwing a real Lundqvist style tantrum. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, as a goalie, but it usually took a little longer to set in.

On the other hand, it had been almost a full week of failure. If only the rest of the team knew, he might not be getting a concerned look from Savy at the blue line.

He skated over during the next TV timeout, hands outstretched. “Everything alright, Bobs?”

Sergei blinked, momentarily taken up with a sense of unreality.

Savy frowned. “Seriously, buddy, you’re looking a little, uh, wound up over here.”

“I’m fine,” said Sergei, shaking his head. He hoped his mask hid his probably quite brittle smile. “Just don’t like to let in those soft goals, you know.”

At that, Savy grinned. “Hey, don’t worry. Me ‘n Jack are your first responders. We’re gonna do our jobs, you focus on yours, alright?”

Sergei thought, with some despair, of the -4 on the scoresheet that first night. He smiled wider anyway, for Savy’s benefit. “Alright, Savy. I will do my very best.”

He did.

The shot clock kept ticking up and up, both teams getting plenty of opportunities — a couple of close calls for both of them, right on the doorstep. But it was Columbus that broke the tie, Nick tapping in a rebound off of Reimer’s right pad, Saader with the assist. Sergei grinned down the ice at them as they celebrated, and it was that moment of unexpected success that he clung to as the clock started again.

It carried him through the rest of the period, thankfully, and they went into intermission still up by one, the atmosphere in the room one of cautious optimism. They may have lost their first four but maybe — maybe.

Dubi looked the most relieved of all of them. He’d taken the loss fairly hard the first time around, Sergei remembered — well, the first repeat, anyway. The very first time, before the magic nonsense started, he’d seemed disappointed, but not crushed.

Now it was like he almost couldn’t believe his luck. Sergei took a mental note of it, filed it away under the growing list of similarities and differences between each repeat. He’d started keeping it to try and combat the growing anxiety that perhaps it was all a dream, or a hallucination, or maybe he’d died and this was actually purgatory.

He really hoped it wasn’t purgatory. He couldn’t imagine anything more galling than dying and then having to find out he’d been on the losing side, theologically.

Thus far, he’d mostly noticed little changes — the order the guys arrived at the rink in the mornings, which ties they’d chosen to wear. The larger changes were mostly to do with the game — the fourth time around, one of the Leafs took a bad spill into the boards and was almost definitely concussed. It was the first time Sergei was glad none of it would stick.

“Alright, guys,” called Nick, standing up by his stall, stick in hand. Sergei sat up, alert. This counted as a big change, he thought. “I know we’re up by a goal. We’ve _been_ up at this point before, we all know that. Don’t think about those times, alright? We’ve got to take this chance, now we have it, and prove to that crowd that we are the team they want to see on the ice every night. The kind of team that plays its goddamn heart out to get the result they want. We’ve gotta be ready to play this period and win, and I want all of you to take on that responsibility, alright? Play for yourselves, play for everybody. Let’s go.”

Sergei sat back. Nick had been having trouble, he knew, with the C and the responsibility that came with it. The speech was maybe the first sign that he was trying to make himself feel less like the third liner he’d been and more like the captain he was.

It made Sergei smile to think about. To think he’d had that in him the whole time — it was almost exciting, to wonder what else he might come out with, trying to spur them on. Even if only Sergei got to remember it.

“Just what the captain said, guys,” said Richards, stood by the door. “You’ve just gotta keep at it, and we’ll get them.”

The moment the buzzer sounded Sergei felt the momentum shifting their way. They got a few chances quick, Reimer having to work hard to keep the puck out of the net, and they didn’t stop trying even as the Leafs collected themselves and started to fight back.

Sergei almost cheered along with the crowd when Joey knocked the puck in on the power play, a neat little play to the right of the net. Up 3-1, with ten minutes left in the game. They just needed to keep it up for a little longer.

The Leafs took the ice back with five minutes to go, taking a couple of shots that Sergei had to work hard to get to, Savy and Jack not in exactly useful positions in the defensive zone. Reilly put one in over Sergei’s skate in the scramble, and things got a little hard to follow, for Sergei and presumably for most of the spectators at the rink.

It was in those frantic few moments after the goal that one of the Leafs slipped backwards and, in a moment of very bad coordination, planted his skate blade straight onto Sergei’s ankle, his full weight behind it as he fell.

It snapped, obviously. The whistle from the ref sounded just before Sergei felt himself hit the ice, the puck about three inches from his mask, taunting him. He couldn’t really register it though; his ankle really, really hurt, radiating cold waves of pain up his calf and down to his toes. He could tell his skate was going to need cutting off.

That annoyed him more than anything. He’d been getting fond of that pair, even if he’d lost every time he’d played in them. They’d formed a kind of bond in failure.

He stayed down, anyway. Trying to move his leg made black spots form in his vision, even besides the rapidly intensifying pain.

The trainer came out to speak to him. Sergei mumbled his reply, gestured vaguely at his ankle, and looked across to see which of his teammates were going to help him off the ice. He could see Savy and Nick skating over, which was more or less the best possible outcome.

“Hello,” he said, cordially. “Come to escort me home?”

Nick nodded, a frown tightly restrained to the corners of his mouth, turned down just slightly. Savy took a glance at Sergei’s ankle and grimaced, which wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence.

“Up you get,” said the trainer with somewhat forced cheerfulness. He gestured for Nick and Savy to come forward and collect their goalie, which they did with as much care as was possible when all three people involved are wearing ice skates, and have only five functional legs between them.

Sergei kept his left foot off the ice, and took a glance at the crowd. They’d been mostly silent, while the trainer checked him over. It was always eerie, how quiet it got after an injury. Sergei hadn’t had to deal with it in quite a while, but the experience stuck with you.

Nick had thoughtfully pulled off Sergei’s mitt and was holding it tucked under his elbow, his own gloved hand keeping a tight grip on Sergei’s own where it was slung across his shoulders. It was warm and damp, as expected, and comforting, which perhaps wasn’t. Savy had his arm around Sergei’s waist, helping him along.

The journey down the tunnel was more difficult than across the ice; simply gliding along no longer being an option, Sergei forgot the need to stay off his foot more than once and jarred it badly. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more welcome sight than the door to the medical room, left open, fluorescent lighting beckoning him inside.

It was with some audible regret that Nick and Savy left to return to the game. “Wish us luck,” said Nick, with a sad smile. “We’re as close as we’ve been so far, thanks to you.”

He set a hand on Sergei’s shoulder. It wasn’t quite a manly slap, or a comforting gesture, but it functioned fairly well as a halfway between the two.

Sergei waved dismissively. “This? This is nothing. I will be fine in no time.”

Assuming the loop kept running, anyway. He certainly hoped it would; he felt pretty close to passing out, or, failing that, throwing up his pre-game meal.

The medic got him set up on the cot by the wall, and spent an industrious few minutes cutting off Sergei’s skate — just as he’d sadly predicted.

He looked sadly at the leather and laces. “They feel like old friend by now,” he said, feeling something almost like grief. It probably wasn’t just for the skate.

The faint sound of booing echoed down the hallway from the rink.

“Looks like Toronto tied it,” said the medic with a frown.

“Of course they did,” said Sergei, closing his eyes. “Why would they not?”

His ankle was broken, of course. The worst possible injury to have, short of snapping a tendon, and it happened just in time for Toronto to win it in overtime.

Since he wasn’t actively bleeding, Sergei requested that the ambulance get put off at least until the game ended. He kind of wanted to see what getting a point did to the mood.

“Well, if you’re sure,” the medic said, looking deeply unconvinced. “Don’t walk on it, obviously, just sit there and I’ll go see if anyone wants to come chat.” He left only after putting a large, fresh from the freezer ice pack on Sergei’s ankle.

Sergei nodded in agreement. Privately, he marvelled at the idea that anyone would choose to walk on an ankle three times its usual size.

Maybe that was the fundamental difference between goalies and skaters: reckless self-endangerment.

With a sigh, Sergei lay back on the bed, careful to keep his leg elevated. He’d been given some painkillers to keep the edge off until the ambulance arrived, so he was feeling fairly zen by the time the medic reappeared, Nick trailing behind him in his game day suit, hair still wet from the showers.

“Hello,” said Sergei, still laying down. He turned his head so that Nick could see his face, anyway.

Nick looked worried but he _was_ at a right angle to Sergei’s point of view, so it might just have been geometric angst.

“Hi,” said Nick, moving swiftly to take the chair next to Sergei’s bed. “What’s the damage?”

Sergei rolled his eyes and waved generally at his leg. “Take a look, you will see world’s biggest ankle. What is it the circus men say? Roll up, roll up?”

“Just about, yeah,” said Nick. He winced in sympathy at the sight of Sergei’s swollen ankle, now thankfully numbed by the heavenly combination of painkillers and good old-fashioned ice. “I guess you heard us, uh, lose.”

Playing the same game over and over… it almost made Sergei forget it was only the fifth game of the season. It felt like they were practically at the All-Star Break already without a win.

Nick had only lost five games, and he looked worse than Sergei felt. Even with the broken ankle.

Sergei studied Nick’s face closely. It wasn’t an unfamiliar activity, not after the past three seasons together, and with the odd, shoelace pulling feeling in his ribcage every time they celebrated a win, but on occasion it yielded some new piece of information - some new way to identify how Nick was feeling.

On this occasion, he was very clearly angry. It was all bunched up in his crow’s feet, tugging at the corners of his mouth like lead weights.

“Yes,” said Sergei, meditatively. “I think I was expecting it, to be honest with you. We have been having quite the bad run, hmm?”

Nick didn’t seem to know how to react to the idea, Sergei thought. The lead weights on his mouth lifted, at least, an incredulous laugh bubbling up.

“That’s one way to put it, yeah. Christ.” He scratched at his beard for a moment, looked away and then back. “Yeah, really hit the nail on the head there, Bob.”

“I try,” said Sergei, mouth twisted. “You will not believe how much time I spend working on that one.”

Nick sighed. “I get where you’re coming from, man.” He frowned again, still scratching at his beard. His nails were ragged at the edges, bitten to the quick. “It feels like this whole season is slipping through our fingers, somehow.”

“Tell me about it,” Sergei murmured, closing his eyes. “I will tell you all about my day tomorrow. If we ever make it to tomorrow.”

The frown remained. “That’s, uh, kind of a weird thing to say there, Bob. Are you doing alright?” Nick rested a hand on Sergei’s forearm, mindful of his elevated leg.

Sergei shivered. “I am fine, thank you. Just feeling a bit... I don’t know.” He paused, thinking it over. “I think it might be a little hard to explain.”

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing at the movement in his leg, spots in his vision. Nick’s fingers tightened on his arm.

“I am having a _very_ strange day,” he began. “I just think I need to get through it, and then tomorrow will be better. The best way out is through,” he said, thinking of a poem half-remembered.

“Alright, Bob,” said Nick. He glanced over his shoulder. “I think the ambulance is here, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow - even if they keep you in I’ll come visit, if you’re okay with that.”

“Of course,” said Sergei. “Why would I not be?”

And not only because tomorrow wasn’t going to come.

 

11

There was nothing wrong, objectively, with overnight oats for breakfast, reading the newspaper front-to-back for English practice, and doing the dishes from the previous night’s casserole, but there was quite a lot subjectively wrong with it. Sergei was just about ready to throw the overnight oats at a wall, or out the window, or at Coach Richards during the game.

It was a very satisfying mental image, at least.

By the eleventh October 16th, he was ready to throw _himself_ out of the window.

“Nothing new today, I suppose,” he muttered to himself as he opened the paper, thinking longingly of the first time he’d read it, back when he’d only thought of skimming the current events and sports sections. There were only so many times a man could read the entertainment news section before he actually started watching Days of Our Lives, and Sergei was feeling close to the threshold.

He’d tried daytime television back when he was beginning to learn English. It had given him a very specialised vocabulary, an aversion to the shopping channel, and not much else of substance.

Regardless, the point was that he was getting fairly sick of reading the same articles about the Marathon, the children’s hospital and the ever present march towards Halloween every morning.

It was time to change up his routine. With a decisive nod - a little excessive since he was alone in the apartment - he shut the newspaper, picked up his phone and pulled up his contacts.

Artem might have at least some idea what was going on. It was the Russian connection.

“Привет, Arty,” Sergei began, once Artem had picked up and mumbled something like a greeting. A glance at the clock revealed that it was still pretty early in the morning.

“Bob?” There was a rustling noise over the phone; Artem must still be in bed. “Good morning,” Artem continued, still in Russian. “What’s up?”

“Well,” Sergei said, feeling something slightly hysterical bubbling up in his chest. “It is a long story.”

He paused, not quite sure where to begin.

“Have I ever told you,” he said eventually. “About my great-uncle Vasily?”

“I don’t think so,” Artem replied thoughtfully. “There are so many great-uncles hanging around in Russia, though, perhaps I just got a few of them mixed up.”

Sergei huffed a reluctant laugh. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, Anisimov.”

“I’ll have you know that at least three guys laugh at my jokes these days. You, Fedor and Nikita are my homeboys forever, of course, but some of the people here are really loving my comedy.”

“Whatever you say,” sighed Sergei. “Anyway, I have to tell you this story.”

There was another pause. Artem was quiet on the other end of the line.

“Great-uncle Vasily took many risks,” said Sergei, reaching for the fragmented memory of the first time he’d heard this particular tale, sat at the table in Babka’s kitchen as she cooked. She’d always been an excellent storyteller — measured when she needed to be, and she did very good voices — and Sergei could still hear her words sometimes in the fading light of the evening, still see the candles flickering in his mind’s eye. “He took risks like gambling, and hunting. He would disappear for days at a time and never tell Great-aunt Sofia where he had been. He came back sometimes with money, or with odd things — carved wood or bone — and he would refuse to speak about what had happened.”

Sergei had hated this story, when he first heard it. Usually Babka’s stories had happy endings, perhaps created just for the first small child in her home in decades, but this one was unique in that it never got an ending. Babka had trailed off, at the end, staring down into the pot she was stirring, and refused to speak of it again.

It was a wonder that Sergei remembered the story so well. The fish-hook lack of satisfaction certainly helped - dragging him along with the eternal question of What Happened Next.

“One day he went out to collect firewood and never returned. Great-aunt Sofia threw on her coat and her boots and went looking for him - out in the snow and wind in the middle of winter. She searched high and low, day and night for 12 nights before she found him, sitting silently on a tree stump in the forest.

“He didn’t look up when she called his name, even when she began crying, when she clutched at his hands. He was cursed,” said Sergei, wincing at the word. “By a witch, for stealing wood from her cabin. She forced him to relive that decision over and over, and in the meantime his body wasted away in the care of aunt Sofia, still and silent.”

Artem whistled, low and long. “Damn, Sergei. I know they say every family has a witch tale but that’s... a hell of a story.” He paused. Sergei waited, fairly sure what question was about to follow. “What does this have to do with your very long story? Unless you just really wanted to creep me out when the sun is barely risen.”

There it was.

“Well,” said Sergei, biting his lip. “I think I am also stuck like uncle Vasily.”

“Ah,” said Artem. “Ну охуеть теперь.”

Sergei grinned, despite himself. “You have such a way with words, Arty.”

“Thanks, I do my best,” Artem replied, with a sad sigh. “Anyway, I have a question about your story. Before we get onto solving your Bill Murray impersonation, anyway.”

“Yes?” Sergei wasn’t going to ask about the Bill Murray reference. He wasn’t in the mood for a debate about American pop culture.

“How does your family know what the witch did? I mean, if he just lay there and wasted away, how do you know he wasn’t just cursed some other way?”

“Sofia found the witch, many years later,” Sergei said. “Babka said the witch was very apologetic, but she couldn’t reverse the curse on her own. The whole point was making Vasily learn his lesson. I suppose he never did.”

Artem inhaled sharply. “I’ll be honest with you, Bobrovsky. It’s not, ah, sounding good for you.”

Sergei shrugged, then remembered he was on the phone and Artem definitely couldn't see him doing it. “Well, mostly I just wanted to tell somebody. It’s been a little crazy, and I cannot talk to these Americans about witchcraft, you know. So much… culture baggage.”

“I hear that,” said Artem, in English.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Sergei, in Russian.

Artem laughed. The crackling of the line only reminded Sergei of the actual distance between them, which may as well have been light years instead of just a few hundred miles. There was no difference when he never woke up on the 17th, never got to take the plane to Chicago.

“So,” he mused. “How many times have you done today, now?”

That made Sergei pause for a moment, counting it up in his head. “I think today makes it twelve, including the first time. We lost the game, and I went home, and I woke up the morning before, same newspaper on the doormat.”

“Weird,” Artem stated. “But at least it is only a day you are repeating. Imagine having to do this whole first two weeks of the season!”

“Thank you so much, Arty,” said Sergei. “It must be so hard for you, winning so many games. How do you know what to do with yourself?”

On the first day he probably wouldn’t have been able to make the joke. That might be considered progress.

“Oh, it’s very hard, but I manage. This new boy Panarin is pretty good, you know.”

“Artemi certainly has one advantage over you,” said Sergei. “He is much less annoying.”

Artem snorted. “And that’s the man I call my friend. Glad to hear this witch business hasn’t stripped you of your good humour.”

There was a mutual silence for a few moments, neither quite sure how to proceed with the conversation.

“Anyway,” Sergei continued, at length. “How is Adriana? Does she miss her most favourite godfather?”

“As always she is a delight and a treasure,” said Artem, audibly smiling. “I will bring her to see you tomorrow.”

“Whenever that is.”

“Whenever that is,” Artem agreed.

Sergei hung up, set his phone down, and let his head fall forward until it thudded against the tabletop.

The afternoon, as it was, came and went without much of note occurring. Sergei was growing used to the rhythm of conversation in the room, more able to unpick the different threads between his teammates, but he’d memorised most of what they said every day by that point and was mostly listening in for something to do.

When Sergei glanced up, right skate lace safely tied, Dubi was looking at him across the room, an odd expression on his face.

Sergei frowned back, then shook his head. There were more important things for him to worry about than Dubi acting oddly.

“You alright, Bob?”

“I am good, Cam, thank you,” Sergei replied with a weak smile. It was getting harder to act casually around the rest of the room, day after day, but he put in the effort anyway.

If he were to actually have some kind of breakdown over it in front of the team, the loop was pretty much guaranteed to end on that specific day. It was just probability.

“Well, just know I’m here if you wanna talk, or whatever,” Cam said, cheerfully. “I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”

Across the room, Joey let out a louder-than-necessary cough.

“Oh, fuck you, Johansen,” said Cam. “I am a goddamn treat to be around.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, _Atkinson_ ,” said Joey, tossing a roll of tape onto the bench. “Still on for lunch on Monday?”

Cam grinned. “You know it. Get read to eat your words, man.”

“Just as long as I can eat lunch as well. Takes a lotta sushi to maintain this,” said Joey, gesturing at his body armour.

Sergei smiled, despite himself. This particular conversation was new, which made it much more interesting than it might’ve been on a normal, not infinitely looping day.

The game got off to a good start.

There were a litany of things which remained unchanged every time Sergei looped back to the early morning - the newspaper, the contents of his cupboards, the banter in the room - there were also some things which changed, seemingly at random.

The game was the source of most of those changes. Some days Richards changed the lineup slightly. On one particularly painful day he’d chosen to put Mac in instead of Bob, and they’d ended up losing by a four goal margin while Sergei struggled not to scream in pure, unadulterated annoyance.

This time around, Bourque twisted his ankle during warmups and Boller had to be rapidly recalled from the press box to suit up.

It might not have been much of an improvement from a purely skills based perspective, but Sergei was grateful for more or less any change of affairs that might possibly lead to some change in the final score.

In any case, they finished the period in a scoreless tie, which was better than Sergei had expected with the team they were icing.

He was getting pretty well acquainted with the failings of every member of the team. It was helpful for his game, but not great for maintaining friendships.

Lucky for him that everyone would just think he was having a bad day. They were even right about that, technically.

“Good work out there, Bobs,” said Nick, sliding in to sit in the stall beside him. “Thanks for bailing me out on that missed block, I really fucked that one up.”

Sergei huffed. “Well, so long as you don’t do it again, I think I can forgive.”

Nick smiled, cuffing Sergei on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best.”

Four minutes into the second period, Nick scored a beauty of a goal off his backhand, lifting the puck deftly over Reimer’s pads, and Sergei felt a smile spread helplessly across his face. It was certainly one kind of apology, and for a hockey player, the best kind he could manage.

Looping through the same day constantly was tiring, certainly, but Sergei was beginning to realise that there were at least two benefits to it. About six thousand negatives, of course, but if he didn’t at least try and find a silver lining he would’ve gone out of his head well before a week’s worth of days had gone by.

The first was that losing the same game was giving him a better perspective on his own game, and on the game generally. Knowing his left side was weak, knowing that sometimes losing wasn’t his fault - they’d lost 1-0 the night before, perhaps the most disappointing loss so far for the team, but the most validating for Sergei’s confidence — it was almost medicinal.

The second benefit… well. The more he and Nick spoke each time, the more times Cam checked in with him, or Savy gave him a thumbs up during TV timeouts, or Bill tapped his pads after a save — that was the kind of study he was interested in. The deeper understanding of how much his team meant to each other. To himself.

He never would’ve noticed those little things before. He loved his team, certainly, but knowing that wasn’t the same as knowing that they felt the same way about _him_. It was difficult to tell when the d-corps was allowing that many scoring chances.

A roar went up from the crowd, tearing Sergei away from his inner monologue and back to the hockey game which was very much still happening.

One of the Leafs — Sergei couldn’t make out which from his end of the ice — was laid out flat on the ice, Boone and another Leaf were definitely headed for a roughing penalty apiece, and —

Sergei blinked. Someone in a Jackets sweater was laying by the boards, clutching his shoulder.

Beard, visor, C — Nick was hurt.

Not ideal.

A trainer came out once the almost-fight got broken up and helped Nick up and off the ice, still clutching his shoulder.

It was good he got to skate off on his own, at least. The phantom pain in his own ankle had been bothering Sergei on and off and that, if he paused to get existential about it, hadn’t even really happened.

The rest of the game was uneventful in comparison.

When compared to the very first game, the 6-3 loss that still weighed heavily on Sergei when he woke up, early in the morning, to the realisation that it was still a goddamn Friday, they were playing fairly well.

Apparently whatever line combos Richards was sending out were actually clicking for once, skating with a little bit of energy that had been absent many of this Friday evenings, and Sergei felt comfortable with the defense in front of him for the first time all season.

Kind of a miracle. He just wished Nick hadn’t had to get hurt for the team to finally figure itself out.

Nick wasn’t around during intermission - Richards said something about tests that Sergei couldn’t quite catch - so it was a somewhat subdued locker room that emptied out down the tunnel for the third.

The score was still sat at 1-0 Columbus. Despite the much needed injection of urgency during the second inspiring a few close calls, Sergei’s teammates hadn’t managed to get the insurance goal they were all desperate for.

The timer kept ticking down, and somehow the score remained the same. Sergei gloved a shot from down low easily, rolled his eyes at Savy when he glanced over in surprise, and let it fall onto the ice after the short wait for the ref’s whistle.

Savy came over during the next TV timeout, visor flipped up and smile on full display. “Nice work tonight, Bobs,” he said, tapping his pads with his stick. “Gotta get this one done for Fligs, yeah?”

“Yes,” said Sergei, thinking suddenly of the speech Nick had made, several Fridays before. He hoped Nick would get the chance to make another of those speeches, sooner rather than later, even if it meant another few Fridays getting the conditions exactly right. “Is important to keep the captain happy.”

With less than four minutes left, the Leafs began gaining momentum. Richards was clearly having a weird day, because he sent out the fourth line to defend a one goal lead with seemingly no thought to the consequences.

Much as Sergei had grown to love Boller, the man wasn’t exactly a shutdown player. A knockdown player, maybe.

Sergei spotted Reimer skating off the ice at around the two minute mark, switching for an extra attacker. The fourth line were making an effort at offense, but there wasn’t much to be done against the Leafs’ best forwards.

As if summoned by Sergei’s spiralling commentary, Kadri came down the ice with a determined stride, broke Clarky’s ankles with a fast deke and spin, and came face to face with Sergei on the breakaway.

This was not exactly how Sergei wanted to spend the last thirty seconds of the game, but it wasn’t the worst possible scenario. After all, he’d been working on his shootout saves ever since Sochi.

Kadri narrowed his eyes a split second before releasing the puck, aiming for the top of the next.

Time slowed, just slightly. Sergei brought up his glove, watched as the puck sailed straight into it faster than he could blink.

The ref blew his whistle. Sergei dropped at the puck, looked at Kadri, and shrugged. _What can I say,_ he thought. _I won Vezina, you know_.

The sound of the buzzer was lost beneath the roar of the crowd, witnesses to the end of a not-at-all historic losing streak, and Sergei grinned behind his mask as the line began to form in front of him.

It slipped at the memory of Nick and his shoulder.

He hadn’t had the joy of a post-game celebration in a long time - the pre-season seemed like ancient history by then - and the rush of happiness as each team member bumped helmets or patted his mask was almost enough to block out the memory, at least temporarily.

This probably wasn’t going to fix the loop. He could feel it, somehow, a roiling in his stomach. He was determined, despite that, to enjoy the evening - to remind himself that winning was actually an achievable goal.

Dubi was waiting by the tunnel as he skated off. “Nice work, Bobster,” he said, almost shouting to be heard over the sound of the arena.

“Thanks, Dubi,” Sergei said with a grin. “I try my very best out there.”

“First star caliber bullshit right there, man,” Dubi replied. He seemed a little intense, even for him. Sergei wasn’t quite sure why, but he thought he could probably chalk it up to Dubi’s inherent… Dubi-ness.

Nick was in the locker room, his shoulder strapped up and arm in a sling over his suit, when Sergei came in still balancing on his skate blades.

“Man of the hour right here,” said Nick with a broad grin. “I’d give you a high five, but my best hand for it is kinda outta commission right now.”

“Well,” said Sergei, reasonably. “If you wait for a little bit, we can celebrate our usual way, if you like.”

Nick’s grin became, somehow, even broader. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the irises twinkling under the fluorescent lighting. “I’d love that.”

“You might be waiting a little while,” said Jody, somewhat apologetically, from the doorway. “Sergei, I know you don’t usually do these, but — first star interview?”

“Yes,” said Sergei, pushing himself back up out of his stall. “Why not?”

The first star interview was one of the few media holdouts Sergei still maintained; he knew and accepted that he would have to do post-game things from time to time, but the increased pressure of a first star interview in front of hundreds if not thousands of people, scrutinising him for his English skills or his emotional investment or whatever arbitrary scale they created — it stressed him out, just slightly.

On a day that would probably be erased when he went to sleep, though? He could manage an interview.

Jody was a good interviewer, friendly and accommodating, and the cheers from the crowd when he was announced and when Jody excused him from the bench made it almost worth it.

He didn’t really remember what he’d said - Jody had mentioned the shutout, Sergei had attempted to sound like someone who had only lived through October 16th a normal number of times (once, to be completely clear about it), and then he’d thanked the fans and his teammates and said goodnight.

It was almost easy.

Nick was still hanging around the locker room when Sergei got back out and made a beeline for his stall to get changed.

“So,” said Nick, ambling over as Sergei pulled on his shirt. “The doc says I’ll probably be out, uh, a while.”

“Oh.” Sergei looked down at his hands. They weren’t very interesting, but it was better than having to watch. “That is… that sucks.”

“Pretty much,” Nick said, collapsing into the next stall. “I don’t want to be dramatic, but this is pretty much the worst way to start out a captaincy.”

“I don’t know,” Sergei said thoughtfully. “I suppose you could have died.”

Nick laughed, loud and sharp, reaching out his free hand to clutch Sergei’s shoulder. “Thanks, Bobs. You always know just what to say.”

“Well, I have had some practice. You would not _believe_ the kind of day I have had.” He paused. “Anyway, I am changed now. Remember the deal?”

“How could I ever forget?” Nick spread his good arm out, resting it across Sergei’s shoulders. Sergei wrapped his left arm around Nick’s waist, rested his head on Nick’s shoulder.

He closed his eyes.

 

12

Sometime over the summer, Sergei had left his phone unattended in Artem’s presence and ended up with a Eurovision entry as his ringtone.

He didn’t mind it, really, as he didn’t have a particularly strong attachment to the pre-set ringtone he’d been using until then.

His phone ringing at six am, however, was not a time Sergei usually wanted or needed to listen to the chorus of Party for Everyone on a loop. He hadn’t even _watched_ Eurovision that year.

“Good morning,” he said, somewhat grumpily, down the line.

“Bob,” said Nick. “I’ve got kind of a weird question to ask.”

Sergei sat up so quickly he saw black spots forming in the dim light of his room.

“Oh?” He asked, carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” said Nick with a creeping note of hysteria. “What day is it?”

“Well, that’s easy,” replied Sergei. “It’s Friday. Again.”

“Right,” said Nick. The sound of keys jingling crackled over the line. “I’m coming over and you are explaining that one in depth, thanks.”

It was surprising how freeing it felt to say it, after the previous Friday’s chat with Artem, and several Fridays before that talking to Nick while his ankle throbbed. He thought fondly of the overnight oats in the fridge, then realised that perhaps if Nick came over he could justify eating literally anything else for breakfast.

He didn’t like being wasteful.

“See you soon.” Sergei hung up, and immediately dropped his phone onto the bed covers. His face came to rest in his hands.

Great. Just… great.

After allowing himself a few minutes to silently freak out, Sergei got out of bed, straightened the covers, and went out to his kitchen to turn on his coffee maker.

He had a feeling this conversation was going to need coffee. Probably alcohol as well, but he was trying to stay away from day drinking after his eighth Friday, which had been something of a disaster end to end.

That was one day he’d been happy to start over.

The doorbell rang just as Sergei finished stacking plates into the dishwasher - even in the circumstances, he couldn’t just leave dirty dishes in the sink. He opened the door, wiping his hands nervously on his sweater, to find Nick stood somewhat dishevelled in the hallway.

“Come in,” he said, and beckoned Nick in with one hand. “Take a seat wherever, I don’t mind.”

“Thanks, Bob,” said Nick. He took a seat on the couch, rested his elbows on his knees, and then his head in his hands.

Sergei took the couch cushion beside him, trying to radiate an air of comforting experience.

“So,” Nick continued, eventually. “Care to explain what the hell is going on?” His voice was slightly muffled, but not so much that Sergei couldn’t understand him.

“If I could tell you exactly, I would,” Sergei began. “But to say the truth, mostly all I have is guesses.”

Nick laughed, as if it was being dragged out of him. “I’ll take whatever you got, man,” he replied. “Just don’t say it’s aliens. Marcus’d never let me hear the end of that.”

That was unlikely, as far as Sergei knew, but he hadn’t considered it before. His face must have given away his reaction, because Nick looked, if anything, more concerned.

“Please tell me it’s not, Bob. You’re killin’ me right now, you’re _really_ killin’ me.”

“It’s not aliens,” Sergei laughed. “It’s… well, I think it might be…”

It occurred to him, quite suddenly, that what he was about to say would sound kind of insane.

The United States may never have found any real witches in the Trials, but they’d certainly driven all of them underground (in some cases literally). It was entirely possible that Nick believed magic was a myth.

Nick kept quiet while Sergei searched for the right words, which he appreciated. Nick had always been good about that, right from when they'd first been introduced.

“Right,” Sergei continued, eventually. “I will just say it. I think we have been cursed.”

Nick frowned. “What, like witchcraft?”

“Yes,” replied Sergei, feeling much better to have the idea out in the open. “Exactly like that.”

“Well, I guess that explains the problem,” Nick reflected, shifting his weight to rest his chin in his hands. “Nonna was always saying we should be wary of magic. Even if all the magic was meant to have left back during the Trials.”

Sergei was suddenly and incredibly grateful for Nick’s European heritage.

“Yes, Babka would always say the same things.” He smiled. “Perhaps there is a group chat for all these grandmothers to share their advice.”

Nick laughed. “Oh, if my Nonna had a group chat I would never go outside, man. She knew way too much.”

Sergei grinned back.

“Anyway,” he said. His smile was fading in the face of reality. “What are we going to do today?”

“What have you done so far?” Nick asked.

Sergei paused for a moment, flicking his fingers, trying to recall all the details. “Hmmm… lost the game twelve times, won once, ate same breakfast every day, broke three different bones on three days, read same paper every day, you broke your face last night, once I got very drunk in the morning and Mac had to play, I watched Cam make same jokes every day, once I got very panicked in the morning and Mac had to play… lot of different things.”

“Mac only having to play twice is probably a good sign for your _mental toughness_ ,” said Nick, with some irony. He’d winced with each new detail, particularly the broken bones, shifting slightly closer to Sergei on the couch. “And hey, at least you haven’t got into party drugs yet.”

“Just because I do not know where people even get them,” said Sergei, only half joking.

“I hear that, man,” said Nick, possibly also half joking. “Alright, so it sounds like you’ve been basically having the worst two weeks of your life, so I think today you should probably take a break from… that.”

Sergei frowned. “If trying to change it every day hasn’t made it any better, what would doing _nothing at all_ accomplish?” He bit his thumbnail and chewed, just for a moment. It was a bad habit.

“Hey, none of that,” said Nick. It wasn’t his newly developed Captain Voice, thankfully; Sergei didn’t think he could deal with something that impersonal at 8am on that Friday. “You clearly need a day off. What’s the harm, if it doesn’t stick anyway?” He caught Sergei’s wrist in his hand, warm fingers closing gently around the joint. “What’s the harm?”

Sergei closed his eyes. “I think if I stop trying to change it, it will just get even worse,” he confessed. “Although, I suppose it is already getting worse.”

“Well, I for one am very glad my face is no longer broken,” said Nick. “So in a way I guess it only gets better the morning after, right?”

Sergei only shook his head. He felt like he’d been trapped under some massive weight, bending him forward until his head was resting in his hands, threatening to crush him.

He felt Nick’s fingers slide to accommodate the shift, still heavy and warm on his skin. It felt nice, but not nice enough to make up for everything else his brain was working with.

“Breathe, Bob,” said Nick, softly. Sergei tried, head spinning. “I think maybe you deserve to have someone else take this on for a change. You ever tell anyone else about this?”

He nodded, still working on the breathing thing. “Arty, once.”

“The Russian connection, huh?” Nick sounded amused, which was probably the best reaction he could’ve had. “I’m glad you talked to somebody. Doesn’t do any good keeping stuff bottled up.”

“You are one to talk,” said Sergei, muffled against the base of his thumb, teeth scraping roughly against skin. Having someone else to worry about made his own worries seem a little lighter, like they were sharing the weight. “We lose five games, I lose this game 12 times, we talk about it maybe three times total. That is a lot of stuff to be carrying around, Nick.” He opened his eyes, turned his head to see what Nick was thinking.

He certainly seemed thought _ful_ , brow furrowed, but Sergei wasn’t convinced he was really paying attention.

Real time, it was probably less than a minute the two of them spent silently thinking. It felt like far longer. Sergei had a nasty feeling his perception of time was getting more and more skewed, the longer he spent repeating himself.

Nick huffed. “You got me there, Bob. I guess I could be doing better with the whole talking thing as well, now you come to mention it.”

“I suppose Richards is not very big fan of talking at the moment.”

“Oh, he tries,” said Nick faithfully. “Maybe one of these days he’ll get fired and we’ll get a fun coach.”

Sergei snorted. “We can only hope.”

It was nice having company on the drive to the rink.

It was nice having someone to give knowing looks to when Cam and Joey had their now daily sushi conversation.

It was nice to start the game feeling even slightly more ready for whatever happened, knowing he could unpick it with somebody who _got it_ afterwards.

They still lost.

Nick called again in the morning.

 

18

It was a little easier, having someone along with him on that repeating Friday, but Sergei still found it a struggle to go to sleep some nights, knowing the next day wasn’t coming.

He’d tried staying up overnight once or twice, made it all the way to the first stroke of midnight before his vision whited out and he was waking up in his bed, alarm sounding, dealing with exhaustion on top of his stiff neck and continuing anxiety.

The night after another loss - not so bad this time, after Nick gave them a well-rehearsed pep talk in the first intermission and a less-rehearsed one in the second - he found himself tired enough to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He hadn’t even gone on the exercise bike after the game.

“Come on, Bob,” Nick had wheedled, grinning as widely as a 3-1 loss would allow. “It won’t kill ya to have dinner out at least once this season.”

“If it was up to you we would have dinner out every night,” said Sergei, without much heat. He swung his kitbag up onto his shoulder, gripping the strap tightly between his fingers just to feel the tight weave of fabric on his skin. He still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t just slipped into a coma or something equally unpleasant. “But yes, I suppose I will go with you just this evening.”

He smiled. Nick winked.

“Oh, by the way,” Nick said as Sergei followed him out of the room. “I tried calling Test Tube for advice, y’know, one old guy to another.”

“Yes?”

Nick grinned fondly. “He said he wasn’t getting involved in any more of our bullshit unless the org starts paying him again. And that he’d had enough of time travel in juniors, not that he elaborated on that point.”

“Well,” said Sergei, able to imagine the exact tone of Letestu’s voice as he said it. “It was worth a try.”

It was nice, having someone else along.

Nick dragged him along to a very late dinner with Cam and Joey at a half-fancy restaurant downtown. Dubi had turned down the invitation with something almost like regret, although Sergei really couldn’t figure out why.

The restaurant was just nice enough that if anyone did recognise them they were unlikely to mention it, which was just the kind of environment Sergei could appreciate after 23 consecutive losses.

It was a fun evening. The worst part about it was when it ended and Sergei had to go back to his apartment alone, in the full and complete knowledge that Cam and Joey wouldn’t remember it.

Nick, at least, always would. That was something that he was getting used to, at least, and very much growing to love.

They’d known each other for three seasons, but the language barrier had always made really _knowing_ each other tricky, particularly all the way back in the beginning, the lockout season, when Fedor had interjected into all of Sergei’s conversations as a willing translator.

It was difficult to have a heart-to-heart in that kind of environment. The hugs, at least, transcended that specific barrier.

The one time Sergei had attempted to articulate that idea, in answer to Cam’s question at a team dinner, Joey had started humming something Nick had later identified, with some embarrassment, as a song from Pocahontas.

Apparently that was the kind of life he’d stumbled into when he got traded. Sergei probably should’ve minded it more than he actually did, which was not very much at all.

That night — the dream appeared hazily, fully formed at the edges, before the centre came into focus, difficult to make sense of.

Trees swept up and over Sergei from above. He was sat on a forest floor, he understood, leaves freshly fallen and brittle under his hands. His uncle Vasily sat opposite him, hunched on a tree stump, deep in thought. He looked out into the thickness of trees with a vital spark in his eyes that had been missing in Babka’s story.

There had been no photos of uncle Vasily that Sergei knew of, but he looked familiar, somehow. Something about the shape of his eyes. The curl of his elbows against his knees.

The leaves crunched under his fingers, turned to dust. Someone was standing behind him; he couldn’t turn his head to look.

“Sorry about all this,” said whoever it was. “I’m working on it.”

 _What?_ Sergei tried to ask. Dreams weren’t very accommodating to the dreamer.

They heard anyway. “Well, this is my fault. It wouldn’t be fair if you ended up like your poor uncle.”

Sergei hadn’t taken his eyes of Vasily, and yet — somehow, he disappeared between one moment and the next. All that was left of him were footprints in the leaves.

He woke up. The threads of the dream wove their way into the unfolding day.

Nick laid a concerned hand on his elbow, halfway through the first intermission. The warmth of it cut through some of the threads.

They lost.

Sergei didn’t dream the next night, but he spent a long time lying awake, waiting for it.

 

24

The goddamn Leafs game kept on coming.

It had become firmly attached to that adjective at some point. Sergei wasn’t sure whether he or Nick had originated it, but either way it was apt enough that he didn’t mind.

Besides, he was beginning to enjoy waking up each morning to a phone call from Nick, who had invariably come up with some kind of plan and/or scheme to test out that day. Sergei wasn’t used to having someone else shoulder part of something he felt was his own responsibility to fix.

He’d never really thought of Nick as a strategist before — that was the kind of title hockey usually reserved for centers — but he was certainly good at viewing their mutual problem from a lot of different angles.

On the morning of his 25th Friday and Nick’s 13th, they were both starting to run out of ideas.

“This better not be unlucky thirteen,” grumbled Nick over the phone, slightly garbled through the sound of his electric razor buzzing loudly in the background.

Sergei hummed in agreement. “That would mean none of the other days have been unlucky, though,” he pointed out, gesturing his spoon towards the phone where it sat on the kitchen counter. “I think the broken bones disagree with you here.”

“Good point,” said Nick. His razor shut off - he’d only shaved his beard fully off once so far, on the 15th Friday, the same day he’d slipped on the ice during warmups and taken out Bourque at the ankles.

Playing with only eleven forwards hadn’t been the solution to their issues, unsurprisingly.

“What’s the plan for today, then?” Sergei asked, scraping his spoon against the base of his cereal bowl. He’d given up on the oats, at last, but the granola wasn’t much better.

There was a pause as the sound of cupboards opening and shutting came over the line. Breakfast, then.

“Well, I was thinking about having morning practice again,” said Nick. Sergei heard a faint noise like the pop of a toaster in the background. “I know it didn’t go… super well, last time, but I figure we need to start revisiting stuff. I’m not _that_ creative, y’know.”

“Don’t put yourself down,” said Sergei. “I thought the lunch plan was very good, actually.”

“We don’t need to talk about that lunch, Bob,” Nick replied, hastily. “That one’s been put to bed and needs no revisiting at all.” He took what Sergei assumed was a large bite of toast, the crunch echoing oddly down the line.

“Whatever you say, captain,” Sergei replied. He smiled down into his empty bowl, glad Nick couldn’t see the exact angle of it. It probably revealed a lot of things he didn’t want Nick to know, just yet. “I think morning practice is good idea, though. I will do my best not to break fingers again, this time.”

That had been more annoying than painful, as it happened. Nick had looked sorry enough through the remainder of that day and most of the next that Sergei was fairly sure it had hurt the captain more than himself.

It was what painkillers for invented for, really. Coach Richards had seemed a bit concerned when Sergei’s first reaction to finding out he’d broken two fingers was to laugh, but Sergei wasn’t willing to let the moment pass without at least _some_ humour.

If he got stuck in his own head about it again he might never figure out a way out of the loop. That was another thing Nick was very good at, besides pep talks and hugs.

“Right,” said Nick, clearly still a little sorry about the fingers. “Well, I’ll call Richards as soon as someone else is even awake on this godforsaken morning, and I’ll see you at the rink around eleven?”

“Sounds good,” Sergei replied. “See you then.”

“See you, Sergei,” said Nick.

Sergei hung up, feeling oddly off centre.

He spent the rest of the morning tidying, as had become his habit, and reorganised his kitchen cabinets for the third time. He was getting closer to an optimised arrangement, he could just feel it.

The rink was quieter than usual when he arrived, bag slung over his shoulder, the locker room only half full.

“It’s an optional practice,” said Nick, when Sergei asked. “Was all I could swing this time around. Apparently my sweet talk isn’t always so convincing.”

He winked, which Sergei thought was very unfair. It was bad enough when he smiled.

Sergei changed quickly, and was busy lacing his skates up by the time Richards called the rest of the guys out onto the ice.

“See you out there in a minute, Bobs,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “No need to rush.”

Barely restraining an eye roll, Sergei nodded.

It was odd being alone in the locker room, but not in a bad way. Usually when he was last out it was in the evening after a game, tired out from playing and exhausted from seeing the Leafs night after night.

The quiet was a lot less oppressive before a game, as well. Nothing worse than being stuck stewing in your own thoughts in an empty locker room.

The guys who had shown up for practice were just starting drills with Mac when Sergei skated out onto the ice, pads double checked and gloves triple - he wasn’t risking his fingers or his tibia, this time around.

Savy waved to him as he came on, grin clearly visible between visor and beard. “Hey, Bobs!”

Sergei waved back, but kept skating to the net where the goalie coach was waiting, presumably to complain about the muscle mass Sergei had put on over the summer again.

He was really going to have to figure something out about that. It clearly wasn’t doing much for his goaltending, although at least his litany of injuries over the past 25 games had never been groin-related.

“Morning, Coach,” he said politely as he settled into the net. The team was getting ready for shootout drills, which Sergei considered his favourite part of practice and the rest of the team absolutely hated.

Nick still hadn’t worn the ugly tie he’d promised he would for losing, no matter how many times Sergei hinted at it.

Speaking of Nick…

Sergei spotted him lining up and waved cheerfully.

“Ready to lose again, captain?”

Nick grinned and waved back. “Don’t count me out just yet, Bobrovsky.”

Dubi whacked Nick in the pads. Sergei grinned, glad his mask hid at least some of the fondness he was sure his expression gave away. “Quit flirting and start shooting, Foligno.”

The drill went about as Sergei expected. He kept most of the shots out — only Cam managed to get past him on the first go around — and on the second, he feinted to the left and let Nick tuck one in behind his right pad.

“Thanks, man,” said Nick, amused. “Gotta boost my ego somehow, right?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Sergei said as he stretched, ready for the next drill.

The next drill was interrupted, however, by a crunching noise that made bile rise in Sergei’s throat.

He craned his neck, trying to see past the row the team had formed in front of him.

“Looks like Borky and Boller collided,” said Dubi. Sergei assumed this was for his benefit, but honestly with Dubi he could never really tell.

Dubi skated over to help before he could ask, either way, as did Nick.

The team medic skated out quickly, waving away the rescue team of hockey players that had assembled.

His expression was easy to read, even from way out in goal.

Sergei grimaced as Nick and Dubi helped the other two off the ice. It looked as if they would be needing a couple of emergency call-ups no matter what exactly the injuries were.

Nick skated back out about five minutes later, looking pale. He came all the way over to lean on the goalpost, head tilted towards Sergei’s mask.

“Don’t really know what happened back there, but the short of it is — looks like they’ll both be out for a couple weeks. Richards is calling down to Cleveland as we speak so we can get a couple guys up here in time for the game.”

Sergei nodded. “I guess we’ll have to see if this is a good change, hm?”

“Yeah,” agreed Nick, leaning closer. “Listen, even if this game doesn’t go the way it could — do you wanna come back to mine after the game? Drink away our sorrows or whatever?”

Sergei took a moment to picture it. Sitting on Nick’s couch, drinking Nick’s beer, feet on the coffee table against Nick’s protests — “Yes,” he said, smiling. “I would like that, I think.”

Chaput and Anderson ended up getting the call from Cleveland, and by the mid-afternoon they were up in Columbus, hanging around at Matty’s house and lighting up the team group chat with emojis.

Sergei assumed it was an attempt to lighten the mood, which he appreciated, but the constant buzzing of his phone wasn’t really contributing anything positive to his day.

It would’ve been quite the opposite, if Nick hadn’t pulled him out with Cam, Dubi and Joey to go find a late lunch in the city.

“Weird morning, huh,” said Cam as they settled into a booth at a sushi place Joey claimed to be highly recommended on Yelp.

“Weird as fuck,” agreed Joey, opening a menu and looking over the maki section. “Look, would it be weird if I just ordered like, six of the same thing. I’ve got a craving right now.”

“Cravings are for pregnant people and children, Joey,” said Cam, without heat. “But sure, do whatever you want. You’re paying.”

“What Cam said,” Nick commented. “I’m gonna be a grownup and order courses like grownups do, but follow your heart, Johansen. I won’t stop you.”

Sergei grinned down at his own menu while the others continued to bicker. This was the kind of thing he’d been missing, when Nick hadn’t been in on the loop.

Dubi looked the happiest to be there of all of them, although Sergei thought that might’ve been the gyoza talking. They were _very_ good.

They ate quickly when their food arrived, conscious of the clock ticking ever closer to game time. Joey ended up ordering a few different dishes, and then ate half of Cam’s food instead of his own. It was how they operated.

The game started.

Richards was rolling all four lines for once, ice time a little more evenly spread than usual, and the change was evident in the way Sergei could see how energised the guys were every time they went over the boards.

They were still up, 2-0, by the second intermission. Cam had scored a wicked shorty halfway through the first, darting up the ice and around three or four Leafs on the way to the paint before putting the puck up high, just over Reimer’s glove.

Nick scored second, nothing showy, just an easy shot in from the point but still a good goal, which was exactly what they needed, up by 1 halfway through the second.

The locker room was cautiously optimistic again. It was a good atmosphere, hopeful but not reckless.

Sergei was feeling the pressure, though. The memory of over a dozen terrible thirds was washing over him.

He was distracted from unpleasant thoughts, however, by a hand waving in front of his face.

“Earth to Bob?” Cam said, grinning. “Sorry, you were looking a little distant there. Can’t have our star player off with the fairies in the last period.”

“Sorry,” said Sergei, feeling colour rise in his cheeks. “I am a little distracted.”

Cam clapped him on the shoulder. He barely felt it through his under-armour, but Sergei still appreciated the thought. “Leave it to us, man. We’ve just gotta hold down the fort, right?”

“Damn right,” said Nick, coming up to stand with Cam. “Now, Atkinson, scram. I gotta talk to Bob about something.”

“Ooooh,” said Cam, backing away, carefully balanced. “Mom and dad need to have a _talk_ , huh?”

“Go suck an egg, shorty.” Nick replied.

Sergei grinned, patting the stall next to him — vacant, thanks to Savy vacating to chat to Jack on the other side of the room. “What is it you want to talk about?”

“Just making sure you’re alright,” said Nick, taking a seat in Savy’s stall. “I figure it’s my captainly duty, right? And as a fellow Bill Murray.”

“Oh, not you too,” sighed Sergei. “At least Arty doesn’t remember that joke.”

“I guess you gotta suffer at least a little bit this time around,” Nick reflected. “Hopefully it’ll just be a crap reference and not anything serious.” He put a hand on Sergei’s thigh, just above his pad. “Look, we just gotta get through this last period. And hey, at least if it goes bad we can try again.”

“Your attitude has really improved,” said Sergei, with a sly smile. “I’m proud of you.”

“Jerk,” replied Nick, companionably. “Right, it’s about time to go back out. Good luck out there.”

“You too,” said Sergei. He could still feel the fading warmth of Nick’s hand as he went down the tunnel.

They won the game.

Sergei had always thought the streamers were a little much, before.

Not so much now, when he was standing in goal, feeling the joy of the whole team closing in on him as they bumped helmets with him, or threw an arm around his shoulders, or just yelled happily in his face.

It was possibly the best he’d felt in months, let alone the past one.

“Told you we’d sort it for ya,” shouted Cam, grinning as Sergei ducked his head to let Cam bump helmets. “Gotta trust the system, man.”

“Whatever you say,” Sergei shouted back, slipping into Russian for once, as Cam skated away.

In all the excitement, it seemed like no time at all before the line had passed him by. Sergei looked up, already feeling a helpless grin spread across his face, to find Nick skating forwards.

He spread his arms wide, cocked his head as if to say _What are you waiting for?_.

It was a good hug. It was always a good hug, to be fair to Nick, who was a particularly good hugger even out of uniform. This time, though, with everything leading up to it — the feeling of Nick’s arms tight around him was basically the best thing he could imagine at that moment.

He hugged back, feeling his mask slip upwards slightly as he attempted to bury his face in Nick’s shoulder.

“It’s been a long time, huh?”

“Too long,” said Sergei, very much muffled by Nick’s jersey. He pulled back after a few more seconds, unwilling to let go just yet.

“Come on,” said Nick, beginning to skate backwards, one hand still on Sergei’s back. “The crowd’s gonna get suspicious if we spend too long out here.”

“Just so long as we can get another one in later,” Sergei replied as he let go. “I think we deserve a couple by now.”

They skated off. Dubi was waiting by the tunnel as usual, looking pensive even as he bumped fists with them both.

“Good game,” Sergei told him as they went up the tunnel. “Nice blocks a couple times out there.”

“Thanks,” said Dubi. He seemed distracted, glancing towards where Cam and Joey were messing around by the locker room door. “You too, Bobs. You too.”

Sergei exchanged a look of confusion with Nick, then shrugged.

He wasn’t going to worry about anything else for at least three hours. It was a commitment he was making.

He’d already worried enough for a whole season, and it was still October.

“Still up for a drink tonight?” Nick asked quietly.

Sergei smiled, something twisting inside him at the feeling of Nick leaning against him, close enough to be heard over the din in the locker room.

“Of course,” he replied. “We deserve it, don’t you think?”

The team named Sergei first star, which he appreciated, but this time he didn’t do the interview. He was overtaken by the idea of spending an evening with Nick, just… existing, before seeing whether today’s plan had worked.

There didn’t seem to be an easy way to tell, beyond the obvious.

He still had to face the media, though, which was a lot easier than it had been a couple of other Fridays. He was still nursing a bruised ego from one of Reed’s questions almost two weeks ago, from his perspective.

To be fair, it had been a bad game. Just maybe not as bad as was being presented by the beat writers.

“Evening, Sergei,” said Portzline, smiling faintly. “Great game out there tonight.”

“Thank you,” Sergei replied. He always felt a little odd when the writers addressed him by his actual name. Hockey culture had heaped nicknames on him for a long time, long enough that his first name was something he was used to hearing only from fellow Russians and the inside of his own head. “You know, we just had to pull together as a team after this morning. It gave us a boost, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” said Portzline. “What can you tell me about this game, then? First win of the season, your first shutout — how does that feel for you? What is that gonna do to the mood in the room, after starting the season the way you did?”

“Well,” Sergei replied, aware of the importance of choosing his words very carefully. “Of course, we are all very happy to win this game. I think we are all hoping to keep winning them.” He paused as a couple of the writers laughed. “Mostly I feel relieved. It’s nice to know I still have it in me.”

Alison asked him a few more questions, then someone from the Toronto beat, before Sergei was allowed to go back to finish changing into street clothes. Nick was waiting by his stall, already having had his media time.

“Sounding good there, Bobs,” said Nick with a smile. Sergei smiled back, taking in the lines around Nick’s mouth, the warmth in his eyes. “We’ll make a media pro of you yet.”

“Jody will fear for his job in no time,” agreed Sergei as he pulled on a shirt and stood up, slipping on a pair of sneakers.

He wasn’t feeling particularly fashionable, but sacrifices sometimes had to be made for friendship. Or whatever it was he and Nick were dealing with.

The drive to Nick’s passed in amiable silence. Perhaps, Sergei mused, they’d talked so much recently that they no longer needed to to feel connected.

It was a nice thought.

“Well, this is it,” said Nick, pulling into the driveway of a house Sergei had only visited a handful of times. He tossed a house key to Sergei. “Go right on in, I’ve just gotta deal with the car — help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”

“Thanks,” said Sergei, feeling oddly moved by the trust inherent in the handing over of keys.

He flicked on the hall light as he entered, bathing the entryway in a comforting glow. The kitchen was just visible through a doorway across the hall, next to the stairs.

Sergei grabbed two beers from the fridge and went on a voyage of discovery trying to find the living room, which turned out to be behind the third door he tried — the other two being a laundry closet and the bathroom, respectively.

The couch, when Sergei collapsed into it, was just the right balance between supportive and soft. The standard lamp cast a similar warm glow across the room, highlighting the armchair by the bricked up fireplace and the framed jersey above.

It was the kind of room that told you a lot about the person who set it up. Good things, in this case.

Sergei heard the front door open before Nick could shout a “Hello!”

“This is a nice couch,” he answered, handing Nick the other beer as he came in the door. “Very comfortable.”

“Thanks,” said Nick, sitting down next to him, a few inches closer than might have been strictly platonic. “I picked it out myself. The colour’s not perfect, but damn is it nice to sit on.”

“The most important thing,” agreed Sergei, nodding sagely.

He accepted Nick’s offer to open his beer with his keychain and took a sip. He wasn’t a beer person, usually, but it was a decent brew.

After a few minutes of silent drinking, Sergei glanced across at Nick. His face was half lit, something mysterious about the shadows forming across his jaw.

“Good game today,” said Sergei, quietly. He felt oddly as if raising the volume too much would shatter the whole world.

“Absolutely,” replied Nick, just as quietly. “Glad you got your groove back, man.”

“Me too,” Sergei agreed. “And I am happy you like being captain now. Or at least, more than you did.”

The tension around Nick’s eyes, ever present through the first few weeks of Sergei’s season, had almost dissolved over the past week. The C clearly sat better with him, now he didn’t take so much responsibility for the losses.

Knowing exactly what they could and couldn’t change had helped a lot. It was difficult to blame yourself for the team losing when you had a +2 rating in a 3-2 loss, or when you broke a bone halfway through the game and had to watch the game slip through the team’s fingers.

Nick laughed, softly. He seemed a lot closer, suddenly, as though the distance between them was being swallowed up in the quiet, happy atmosphere.

Sergei’s throat dried up. He took another sip of beer, which didn’t help much.

“Uh,” said Nick, intelligently. His mouth was very distracting, suddenly, mostly because Sergei was trying hard not to look at it. This was apparently very similar to a problem Nick was having, as Sergei caught his eyes flickering down and back up, almost too fast for him to notice.

Sergei had always been good at noticing small things. It was a good quality for a goalie to have.

He took another sip of beer, and watched the way Nick’s eyes flicked up and down again. He smiled.

“Nick, I have a big question to ask,” he said, setting his beer down on the end table.

Nick blinked. “Yes?”

“Would you — do you want to —”

Sergei huffed. Of all the times for his English to fail him.

Nick narrowed his eyes.

With some trepidation, Sergei rested a careful hand on Nick’s neck, thumb pressed lightly under his jaw.

There was a pause. Sergei could feel Nick’s pulse beating faster beneath his palm.

“Oh,” said Nick, brightly. “Oh, hell yeah.”

He leaned in and kissed Sergei, gently.

Sergei’s eyes slid shut. He kissed back, obviously, swept his thumb across Nick’s jaw, smiled against his mouth.

The clock ticked over to midnight without either of them noticing.

Nothing happened.

 

+1

Sergei opened his eyes.

He was resting on a surface which was neither too soft, nor too firm. Nick’s couch, then.

His attempt to dramatically sit bolt upright was stymied by a warm, heavy weight holding him against the couch. He glanced down, to find the back of Nick’s head staring back.

The previous night came rushing back.

His phone was, thankfully, resting on the end table nearest his head. It was the work of moments to turn on the screen and stare, uncomprehending, at the date.

“Nick?” Sergei said, a note of hysteria creeping in. “Niiiiick?”

“Mmmph,” said Nick, eloquent as always.

“It’s Saturday.”

Nick opened his eyes. “Oh, holy shit.”

Sergei hummed in agreement. There was an odd storm cloud feeling gathering in his chest. His eyes stung.

Nick shifted slightly, keeping one arm securely around Sergei’s chest as he pushed himself up on the opposite elbow.

His eyes were smiling, even if his mouth was flat. It was a semi-permanent quality Nick had.

With only one more glance at the screen, Sergei set his phone down and leaned in to kiss Nick. It was a lot easier than dealing with the fact that time was apparently moving forward at a normal pace again.

His phone buzzed just as Nick was sliding a hand into Sergei’s hair. Sergei sighed, annoyed, and pulled his head back a fraction.

“I should probably check, in case of emergency,” said Sergei, reluctantly. “We are meant to be on a plane later today, after all.”

“Would you believe I’d totally fuckin’ forgotten about that?” Nick asked. He laughed. “Hell, we’ve got to play, what, seventy seven more games? That’s goddamn nuts, man.”

Sergei rolled his eyes. “Just take it one game at a time, Nick. Same as we have been all season.”

“It was just a lot easier when we got a couple redos,” said Nick. “Not that I’d wanna repeat the experience.”

Sergei nodded in agreement, unlocking his phone as he did.

“It’s from Dubi,” he reported, shifting slightly so his elbow was at a more comfortable angle.

 **Dubzz** : Hey can we talk  
**Dubzz** : Gotta tell u and nick something

Sergei frowned.

“Everything alright?”

“Dubi wants to talk,” replied Sergei. “He doesn’t say what about, though. Just made sure to say he meant me _and_ you.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re gonna be on a plane together for a couple hours or anything,” said Nick, with some humour. “I’m up for a talk with him, so long as he doesn’t tell us he’s a serial killer or something. That seems kind of like a team meeting thing.”

Sergei snorted. “Yes, I think that would need a bigger audience.”

It was another two hours before they had to leave for the plane. It was only fifteen minutes before Dubi turned up at the door, looking even more intense than usual.

Nick answered the door, since it was his house, but it was Sergei who Dubi made a beeline for, once he’d exchanged rushed pleasantries with Nick.

“Good morning,” said Sergei, politely.

“Morning, Bob,” said Dubi. He was tense, shoulders drawn up and back like someone facing a firing squad. “Look, sorry for barging over here but I _really_ needed to talk.”

“Alright,” Sergei said, gesturing towards the armchair. “What’s up?”

He was trying to get used to using less formal English in conversation. It was kind of hit and miss, but his English tutor had always said that the important thing was to try.

“Well,” Dubi began, folding himself into the chair. “It’s kind of a long story. Or, maybe not long, just kind of weird.”

“Dubi,” said Sergei, patiently. “I have had a very weird season. I am sure yours cannot have been that much weirder.”

“Oh, you sure about that?” Dubi had what Sergei could only describe as a Dubi-ish glint in his eye. “Right, well, to start with — we didn’t win last night on the first try, did we?”

Sergei blinked.

“And we didn’t win the next game, or the next,” Dubi pressed on, leaning forward in his chair, hands clenched around his knees. “And then Richards got fired, and we got a new coach, and we lost the next game as well.”

Nick came in and sat on the couch beside Sergei. “What’d I miss?” He whispered.

“I think Dubi has maybe had a worse season than us,” Sergei replied. “Now shh. I want to find out how much worse it gets.”

Dubi glared at them for the interruption. “The ninth game, though, that one we won. Best day of my damn life. But then we kept on losing, and Joey went to Nashville, and Bob got broken and didn’t come back properly for three months, and we were just utter fuckin’ shit for most of the season.”

Sergei winced at the mention of another long term injury. Nick just looked generally upset.

“And, what, I was supposed to take that lying down? No way, man. So I did a little family history and found the number of somebody who could help me out, but — I guess the spell stuck to one of you, not to me like it was meant to. So I guess I came round to apologise for this whole mess landing on you instead.” Dubi looked about ready to cry, which was a situation so unimaginable it left Sergei almost speechless.

Only almost, though.

“So, you did this to help the team?” He asked, slowly.

Dubi nodded. “Although now I kinda feel like some of it’s gone to shit. I forgot how the team was at the start of the season. Cam barely even—” He stopped, a flush creeping up the side of his neck.

“Well, I accept your apology at least,” said Nick, being a naturally forgiving person most of the time. “Bob was stuck twice as long as me though, so if he hates you forever I wouldn't blame him one bit.” Nick was smiling as he said it, but Sergei still got the impression he was serious.

Sergei shook his head. “It was really meant to be you?”

Dubi nodded.

“Then I accept your apology too. It all turned out okay in the end, did it not?” Sergei swept out an arm to indicate the general sense of okayness within the room and the wider world. He smiled at Nick, a shy, private kind of smile.

Nick smiled back, then turned to look at Dubi again. “So, just one question. How the hell did you find a witch in America? I thought they were all basically off the grid these days.”

Dubi winced. “Well, that’s pretty much true, but… my parents know a couple of people, up in Alaska. One of ‘em used to babysit when I was a kid, guess my folks thought she’d encourage good behaviour.”

“And you asked your babysitter for… what, a do-over?”

“Basically, yeah,” said Dubi. “I think she must’ve known something though because she seemed pretty set on Bob being the guy for it, when she actually cast the spell. By that point I had no say in the matter, but she mentioned some family debt that needed resolving.”

“At least it wasn’t a curse, then,” Nick said thoughtfully.

“That’s the thing,” said Dubi. “Magic isn’t good or bad, it’s just… magic. Babysitter witch was adamant about that. It’s all the way you take it.”

Sergei blinked. “Huh.”

Perhaps that was what the witch had meant, when she said Vasily hadn’t learned his lesson.

It was good to think that he and Nick had, in the end.

“Well,” said Dubi, looking slightly less uncomfortable than he had when he arrived. “I should probably leave you to, uh, pack, and stuff. See you on the plane?”

“See you then,” said Nick. With that, he led Dubi out of the living room, presumably to wave him off with some leadership strategies. Sergei took the opportunity to lay down on the couch and cover his face with one of the throw pillows.

He felt Nick sit down by his feet, and obligingly lifted them to rest on Nick’s lap.

“Crazy day, huh,” said Nick.

Sergei kept the pillow over his face. “Mmmmmm,” he said, agreeably.

Nick laughed. Sergei felt the hum of it in his ankles, which was just disconcerting enough to have him abandon the pillow.

“So, we gotta get this plane,” Nick continued, rubbing absent minded circles into Sergei’s calf as he spoke. “Any guesses what weird magic bullshit we’ll have to contend with on the flight?”

“God knows,” said Sergei. “Perhaps there will be a wormhole and we end up in Jurassic times.”

“I would love to meet a dinosaur,” Nick agreed. “But hopefully not today.”

“Hopefully not,” replied Sergei. “I remember Arty promised I could see Ariana, last time I called him.”

“Do you think he remembers that?” Nick asked.

“I have no clue,” Sergei said. “But he loves showing off his family, so perhaps he will do it anyway.”

“You’re right about that.” Nick looked pensive. “God, I really hope only we have to remember all that shit. No one needs to know some of the shit I said in those intermission speeches.”

“I thought they were all very inspirational,” said Sergei, encouragingly. “I wish I could have recorded some, played them back in times of trouble.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Don’t mock me, Bobrovsky.”

“I would never think of it, captain.” Sergei smiled. “We have an hour before we must leave, yes?”

Nick nodded. “About that.”

“Well,” said Sergei, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I can think of a good way to spend that time.”

“Real smooth, Bob,” said Nick, approvingly. “Real smooth.”

When they eventually got on the flight to Chicago, slightly rumpled, it was to the sight of a team mostly at peace with itself.

Bill was texting somebody - probably Wenny, those two were already attached at the hip despite the kid’s concussion - while Murrs and Boone were playing poker with Hartsy and Prouter. Most of the rest of the guys had headphones in or sleep masks on, grabbing a last couple hours of rest before the game.

Sergei navigated his way to an empty seat opposite Cam and Joey, who were engaged in some kind of card game Sergei couldn’t identify. Possibly it was one they’d invented themselves - that seemed like the kind of thing they’d do.

“Afternoon,” said Sergei, politely.

“Afternoon, Bob,” said Joey, before placing down a 3 of clubs with a triumphant grin.

Cam slammed a fist on the table, softly enough not to disturb the rest of the cards. “Damn you, Johansen,” he said with some feeling. “You’ve ruined my master strategy.”

“It’s not a master strategy, Cam, you’ve been using it every game of this we’ve played since Springfield.”

“And you’ve ruined it every time.”

Sergei felt himself starting to smile. He turned towards the window, shut his eyes, felt Nick slide into the seat beside him.

Whatever happened, it was going to move them all forward. Maybe that was the most important thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Jay, I just really hope you enjoy this at this point. I think it should be pretty glaringly obvious exactly who wrote this so please don't judge me too harshly if you think it's crap ;) You have seen me suffering extensively over this one.
> 
> Despite that, this was actually a joy to write, and something that's been on my to-write list for Literally Two Years, so thank you for the opportunity to dive back into the Team-As-It-Was.
> 
> My hypothetical best case for the full season is this: They still miss the playoffs, Richards is still fired - but slightly later into the season - Joey still gets traded, and Bob still gets injured. The positive of this is that they win 3rd in the draft lottery so PLD is still going to appear in this AU and be his delightful self. Dubi will get to be less miserable about losing his budding romance with Cam bc he can work on it all over again with the benefit of practice. Also, Nick and Bob get secretly married or whatever and move into Nick's house with the good couch and get a dog. Which breed the dog is is entirely up to your discretion.
> 
> Title is from Cher's 'If I Could Turn Back Time', WHICH WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A WORKING TITLE, but then I got attached. Story of my damn life.


End file.
